


Bone, To Ire, To Marrow

by ight



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Character Death, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd is a literature nerd, Magical Realism, Permanent Injury, Post-Apocalypse, Survivor Guilt, and like strawberry icecream, and new clothes, combining a bunch of different timelines, how many times can i reference candide, lets be real every fic is just us trying to make sense of canon, this was inspired by a meme back in January and here i am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:40:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24046045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ight/pseuds/ight
Summary: Traversing the ruins of a leveled Gotham City, with only ghosts to keep him company, Jason goes home.(it rains the whole way)
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Everyone, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 25
Kudos: 130





	Bone, To Ire, To Marrow

**Author's Note:**

> this is the result of a meme i saw in january and two nights of insomnia. really channeling the bats rn.

It was a horrendous day for a walk.

The sky had been pouring rain for the past two days, almost as though some higher power was trying to power wash the poor carcass of Gotham. Like it was hoping that if it dumped enough water on the cracked stones of the fallen building, marble would appear. But all it did was make Jason slip on the slick rubble and make it impossible to tell the time of day. He’d slid down the same slope three times the night prior, and had decided  _ hey, fuck it, I’ll try again tomorrow. _ Bunkering down in the most uncomfortable alcove of rubble, he curled on top of the single slab of dry concrete that this god forsaken city had to offer. He’d refused to check before the telltale sound of rain faded to nothing, and even  _ then  _ he gave it another thirty minutes before he peeked outside to see that state of the city - which was that it was dark, gray, and deserted.

Not a big leap from before, in Jason’s opinion. But  _ much  _ preferable over  _ rainy,  _ gray, and deserted. Stretching his stiff joints, he ventured from his small makeshift bunker into the stormy twilight, continuing his journey through the ruins of the desecrated city.

It had been a year, at this point. Jason never was one to scratch a notch on the wall to count each passing day, but whenever he came across a miraculously working piece of tech he took a moment to gauge the time passed.

A year ago, he’d been taking a rare night off. No capes, no intel, not so much as a  _ Google  _ search pertaining to anything crime related. Strawberry ice cream sitting on the counter to soften, he’d been browsing his bookshelf for something to fall into that night. He’d been brushing a thumb over a title Dick had gifted to him that past Christmas when a shrill beep sounded through the quiet apartment, startling Jason with a curse. It was the communicator that had been slipped to him by Babs eight months prior, one intended to be used in an emergency alone. It had stayed silent that entire eight months, sitting in the junk drawer Jason had tossed it in. His eyes slid over to the ice cream sitting on the counter, and for a moment he played with the idea of shutting off the communicator and pretending he never heard anything.

God, imagine if he’d ignored it?

It took him ten minutes to change from his soft sweater and flannel pants to the stiff leathers and kevlar, and another twenty to swing over to the coordinates that lit up the emergency communicator’s screen. He’d taken a little longer than absolutely necessary, trying to slow the thunderous beat of his heart before he had to face the Bats. He’d almost thought it laughable, that facing his former mentor scared him more than whatever it was that compelled said mentor to hit the emergency comm link. 

  
  


The minutes, in the end, mattered.

A rock skid from under his heel, forcing his mind back to the present. In a rush, Jason grabbed onto a large stem of rebar just to the left of his head, suspending himself as the wet rocks rolled from their sedimentary place. Not enough to turn the precarious hill of concrete rubble into a landslide, luckily, but Jason had had his fair share of almost becoming bone meal under these boulders to know not to assume the best of this environment.

Hanging from the rebar, he became aware of just how limply his gear hung off of him. He’d once had to toss this leather jacket for being a little too snug, now it was as fashionable as a used napkin against his skeletal frame. Even his helmet seemed to knock around the corners of his skull. He toyed with resizing his gear with the help of the others back at the survivor’s camp, but he deemed the two possible outcomes (i.e: his now-rare clothes getting shredded by Harley’s exuberant fashion tastes, or the disgust he’ll feel if he sees just  _ how  _ small he’s gotten) not worth the risk.

Relaxing his grip, he delicately placed himself back down on the unsteady ground. After testing his path with a few gentle stomps, he continued on his way.

It was hard to not allow the mind to wander, on these walks. It’s why he stuck to the camps, where he at least had the  _ option  _ to speak to people if he wanted to. Putting on the whole get up was exhausting, yeah, but he  _ could  _ do it if he so chose. If anything, his limited appearances gave him that  _ mysterious  _ vibe he’d always tried for back before all this went down - although “mysterious” before had really just meant “Bruce already knows and isn’t playing into it”, which was much less cool. 

It still wasn’t cool now, not really. It was draining, it was lonely. He was the last bat, the Crowned Prince of Gotham. At one point, he’d thought he wanted that. 

  
  
  


The last time he’d been with the bats, he remembered the immediate feeling of  _ finality  _ that came alongside entering the battlefield. It had been the dawn of spring, the cherry blossoms blooming at the front of the Gotham Museum. One of Bruce’s donations, an attempt to brighten the city. Ironically, that’s where he finds his former mentor, leaning against the trunk while gripping a large gash on his left side. Robin was beside him, a tense ball ready to snap - although his twin gashes on his right thigh seemed to limit his ability to do so. Surrounding them was the remains of the museum’s west wing, a green glow emitting from inside that Jason was 80% sure he wasn’t hallucinating. With a low whistle, Jason crept over to the duo, careful not to draw any unwanted attention.

“Jason.” Batman -  _ Bruce  _ \- had breathed when he arrived. Jason’s eyes had widened under the hood, almost stumbling over the debris.

“No names on the field.” He’d replied automatically, his sarcastic tone seeping in to cover the uptick of his heart rate. Bruce had simply grunted in response, straightening his back with a clench of his jaw. Damian imitated this, doing his best to hide the fact he was leaning on his bo staff. 

“You know, I’d thought this would’ve been for something a little more exciting than a museum heist, given that this is the first time you called me since Alfred guilted me into Thanksgiving.” Jason jabbed, egging for a reaction. Out of habit or out of nervousness, he wouldn’t tell.

“I thought you liked the Frida Kahlo exhibit that was rolling through.” Jason glanced to his right, in time to see Tim glide in, looking slightly rumpled in his Red Robin suit. His attention was on his wrist computer rather than where his feet were going, although that only resulted in the slightest of stumble. 

“The amount of fun facts you have on me has officially left the “endearing” station and is on a fast track to stalker-ville, Red.”

“ _ Boys _ ” a voice crackled into his comm, almost making him jump. “ _ If we could  _ please  _ keep our attention on today’s world threatening crisis, I’d appreciate it.” _

“Yes,” Bruce finally spoke, applying a spray on adhesive over his wounded side. “Oracle, were you able to read Red Robin’s scan?”

_ “It’s not looking too good, B.”  _ Barbara spoke, voice modulator hiding any tension in her voice. “ _ Radiation levels are spiking at the core, which is scrambling some of my data. But there appears to be a weak spot, on the lower right divet of the sphere. At least, there isn’t consistent energy pulses radiating from it.” _

“Then we go for the right divet.” Tim said, closing the small computer in favor of pulling out his bo staff. The three heroes before him straightened with a new mission in plan, leaving Jason reeling.

“Time out.” he called into the trio, which all looked at him with exasperated expressions. “Before I leap into the - did you say  _ radiated? - _ Frida Kahlo exhibit, can someone catch me up to speed with what’s actually happening?”

“Tt.” Damian huffed, elegant as always. “If you hadn’t been sleeping on your couch for the past day and a half, you’d already  _ know _ .”

“ _ Robin _ .” Came Bruce’s equally elegant response. Jason threw his hands in the air, looking to Tim for insight.

“Across the world, there’s been multiple reports of massive spheres crashing into metropolitan areas.” Tim said, much to Jason’s relief. “Here, Metropolis, Star City … everywhere. Each one has its own local bomb squad trying to disarm it, but it’s made of future-tech that’s so immobile that even  _ Superman _ can’t move it.”

Jason let out a low whistle, suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation. Realizing the reason Bruce had been  _ relieved  _ at his presence. For a moment, there was a lull in conversation. They all knew, really.

“So,” Jason spoke, unholstering his gun. “Lower right divet?”

  
  
  
  
  


The rain had stopped, but the sky remained it’s dull gray hue. The cool air of early spring prevented the air from becoming muggy, but Jason knew deep in his bones that it was only a matter of time before the summer heat will cause a smothering humidity to take over the ruined streets. He can already hear Harley moaning about it, always so quick to complain. 

Lifting his head, he saw how the rubble fell away to the charred remains of a hilled forest. Pam was hopeful that she could concoct a way to bring back vegetation that could withstand the new environment, but so far she’d only managed a few rose bushes in their little camp. Jason loved them.

At this rate, however, he could climb these hills before nightfall. He gritted his teeth. These woods laid outside his territory, anything could be hidden under the felled trees. He’s yet to see an amalgamated animal, but it was only a matter of time.

It took him a day and a half to get to where he is now. Three-hundred and seventy days ago, it would’ve taken him two hours, tops. But he didn’t have the luxury of his old bike - or even an old fashioned grapple, in that matter. The only clear paths were created around the camps - the whole world was too concerned with making it through it’s first winter rather than rebuilding infrastructure. And it’s not like there were any super-powered metas lingering in Gotham on hand to just move tonnes upon tonnes of fallen skyscrapers. That, it seemed, was Bruce’s legacy.

Taking a deep breath, Jason walked into the charred bramble, resting a hand on his rusting gun.

  
  
  
  


Walking into the museum was always a delight that turned his stomach to butterflies, but this was a whole new level.

He grimaced against it, but continued his march alongside the Bats. Looking to his right, he noticed that Tim already had a green tint to his skin. Jason scoffed.

“Get a spleen already.”

“Fuck you.” Tim bit back with no real heat. “Unlike  _ someone,  _ I don’t dabble in the black market in my free time.”

The gentle banter stopped the moment a large clatter resounded to their left. In a moment, they all raised their weapons - only to see the wobbling figure of an older woman clutching a portrait. There was a distinctive glean to her brow - definitely exposed to the radiation.

“Ugh.” Damian spat, dropping his arm. “I  _ refuse  _ to get near  _ that _ .”

“ _ That  _ is the museum curator,  _ Robin _ , and a  _ civilian _ .” Tim hissed. “We can’t leave her in here, not if we’re about to play hot potato with a  _ nuke _ .”

“ _ Nuke? _ ” the woman repeated, somehow growing paler. Jason almost laughed.

“You’re only _just_ noticing the  radiation _ ,  _ lady?” he poked, only to receive two glares and one raised eyebrow. He shrugged.

“If you’re so defensive,  _ Red Robin,  _ maybe you should escort her to the nearest shelter?” He drawled. 

“The nearest shelter is a quarter mile away, I won’t be able to make it back in time to help disarm the bomb.” Tim gritted, tensing up.

“Disarming explosives is hardly a four-man job.” Robin quipped.

“It is when you’re one of  _ two  _ people in the area who can disarm a bomb, and the only other person is hardly walking.”

“I would be offended that I wasn’t added to the list, but I guess that’s reasonable given my notable disarming failures.”

“Red Robin.” Bruce spoke, weary voice pointedly ignoring Jason’s input, “You’re the only one with the equipment necessary to safely and effectively get a civilian to a shelter. Take the curator, you have approximately eight minutes left.”

Bruce stiffened, jaw working for a moment before he continued. “... Maybe you should consider staying in the shelter. To help give direction, keep order.”

A hush fell over the group as they processed the words, Tim’s eyes wide for a moment as he computed the hidden meaning behind the words.

_ “Clocks ticking, boys.”  _ Oracles voice sounded in their ears, startling them out of their stupor.

“If either of you boys want to join Red Robin…”

“No.” Damian and Jason said in unison. Bruce gave a small half smile. Tim frowned, moving to pick up the woman.

“I’ll be back.” Tim promised, tone firm. Without waiting for a response, he ran towards the entryway, unhooking his grappling gun. The trio watched him leave, unsure of the promise he’d left them with.

  
  
  


The bramble snagged his jacket, and his boots had trouble trudging through the mud. The old roads had been lost to landslides, so Jason chose the much more direct route of cutting directly uphill. At this moment, he truly considered bringing Pam along with him next time. They’d created a comfortable little mini-society at the camps, and Harley  _ probably  _ wouldn’t burn it all down if he left her alone for a few days. No guarantees, but he could hope.

With his mind wandering, he didn’t think to test the ground beneath him before putting his full weight on it. While his head tilted back - trying to figure out the damn time with all these clouds - his foot slipped on a loose rock, catching him by surprise as he toppled onto the muddy slope. 

“Ugh,” Jason scoffed, feeling the mud seep into his gloves. He didn’t even know why he bothered wearing clothes at this point - especially given how far away he was from the survivors camp. There was the off-chance that there was a survivor lingering around Gotham that he’d run into, and scaring them away with the horrific sight that was his body nowadays wasn’t really the best way to help. And the clothes prevented any chance of something getting snagged in his numerous cracks and crevices. Both were good points, but now his hands were trapped in a mudpie.

Pushing himself back up, Jason looked at the space ahead of him. Between the bramble, he could make out the ruins of the Wayne Manor. Most buildings had already been flattened, however Bruce Wayne’s paranoia and the sheer distance between the city center and the manor was enough to keep it standing. The plaster was gone - either from the big bang or from the weather - but the brick stood strong. Still, it looked… empty. Hallow. 

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself up the hill.

  
  
  


“Do you think whoever sent these nukes down on us had something against Frida? Or is it just a coincidence.”

His question goes ignored, save for a half-hearted glare from Damian. Bruce chose to save his focus for the glowing bomb at the center of the room, although his intimidating gait was closer to an old man’s hobble by the time he reached it. Despite himself, Jason felt anxiety grip his throat at the sight. 

“Shouldn’t you be in a hazmat suit?” he found himself asking, cautiously approaching the bomb himself. 

With his cowl on, it was hard to tell what Bruce was thinking. The downward curl from the corner of his lips and the careful breath he took as he assessed the bomb was telling, in its own way. 

“No time.”

_Yeah_ , Jason thought as he looked at the pulsating glow, _no shit._

“Oracle spoke of a weak point” Damian spoke, a slight tremor to his voice. From the situation at hand or from the waves of radiation hitting him, Jason couldn’t tell. Rather than trying to figure that out, Jason kneeled down beside Bruce. He slid his gun back into its holster and pulled out a knife instead, using the tip of the blade to scratch at the surface of the explosive.

“It has to be this panel.” he muttered, using his blade to pry open the thin panel. It clattered against the cracked marble floor, barely covering the sharp breath that Jason took in at the sight inside. It was ugly - a mess of wires and what seemed to be future-tech batteries, holding it all together. Most importantly, of course, was the countdown clock.

A minute and thirty six seconds left.

A minute and thirty five seconds left.

A minute and thirty four seconds left.

He hears Oracle and Tim buzzing in his ears ( _ “I’m on my way back!” “No! You all need to get to the safehouse, immediately!”)  _ yet he can’t bring himself to respond. A minute and a half. That’s all they have. More of a heads up than the last time he found himself face to face with a countdown. But with all the wiring, all the future-tech…

He realizes that he’s been pushed to the side long after his ass hits the marble. In his place is Bruce, staring into the open panel with a pair of wire cutters in hand. Damian is at his side - most likely the one to tug him out the way. Through the thick fabric of his jacket and armor, he can feel the steely grip the thirteen year old has on his shoulder. 

“A minute left, Father.” Damian almost whispers. For a moment, he almost sounds his age.

“Where’s Dick?” he finds himself asking, voice echoing in the dome of his helmet.

Bruce pauses, responding quietly to someone over his earpiece. Then, with the same finality of a redwood tree falling, he placed the wire cutters down and removed his cowl. The glow of the explosive highlighted the white hairs streaking his temples, the crows feet at the corners of his eyes. He looked at the bomb for one last moment, almost as though he could will the clock to stop, before turning to his two sons.

“Dick’s in Bludhaven. Sleeping, most likely.” Bruce almost smiled, “Outside the blast zone.”

Jason nodded, holding onto the knowledge that at least one of them will make it.

“If anyone can handle the apocalypse, it’d be Grayson.” Damian said, absentmindedly. 

It’s quiet for a moment, as Bruce comes closer to the pair. Gently, he presses the release clasps for Jason’s helmet, tugging the hood off and letting it clatter to the ground. In any other circumstance, he’d be biting Bruce’s hand off by now. At that moment, however, he’s just happy he skipped the domino mask today. To his right, he saw Bruce pull off Damian’s own domino mask. He saw the red eyes it had been covering.

They were all silent, counting down the seconds in their head. Twenty. Nineteen.

Bruce leaned forward, pulling them both to his chest, wrapping his cape around the two of them as though that could possibly shield them from the incoming blast.. He could feel Damian’s hand tremble on his shoulder. He wanted to sob.

“Father-” Fifteen. Fourteen.

“I’m proud of you both.” Thirteen. Twelve. “Thank you.”

Jason just grips the two of them tighter, choking on regret.

“ _ Guys!”  _ Jason looks over Bruce’s shoulder just in time to see Tim roll in from a broken window, clutching a chunk of Kryptonite in hand. “ _ Move, I know what to do!” _

Bruce’s hand tightens around his shoulder, bracing. Three. Two.

“Tim-” He begins to call. For a moment, they hold each other’s gaze - Tim’s wide lens of his cowl, and Jason’s own red eyes. It’s a goodbye.

There’s a flash, and he’s gone. He doesn’t hear it, like in Ethiopia. He hardly even feels it. He just feels one last tremble from Damian, Bruce’s hand at the base of his neck. He sees Tim stop, almost in shock at the scene before him - is that someone standing next to him? He thinks that he wishes he went to Thanksgiving last year.

That was the last moment.

  
  
  


With a huff, Jason pulls himself onto the level grounds of Wayne Manor. He doesn’t know how he can still get so winded, when he’s not even entirely a person anymore. It beats not being able to move at all, so he can’t complain for too long.

From the angle he climbed the hill at, he ended up at the back of the house. Where Alfred’s garden used to be. He walks through the flattened ground, and pauses a moment at the stone circle that once held the prized rosebush. He crouches down for a moment, dusting each stone of dirt and debris that had accumulated in the past year.

“Next time I come around, I’ll bring one of Pam’s new roses for you, Alfie. You can take care of it.”

A wave of sorrow hit him, harder than it had in months. Wayne Manor always did that to him, although he almost misses the old anger he held for this place. The anger, he knew, had already subsided by the end of it all. He’d avoided phone calls and ducked out of post-mission celebrations not out of hatred - no, he had been  _ afraid.  _ Afraid of getting close only to hurt them all again when he’d inevitably use the wrong kind of bullet. Only to be shunned by Bruce once again, to look at Dick’s pitying gaze. He feared it so much it would make his stomach roll. It almost made him ignore that last emergency call.

It had been so, so stupid.

“ _ I’m proud of you both” _

He wishes he could go back in time if only to throttle his past self for being so  _ stupid _ -

_ “Thank you. _ ”

“You’re an idiot, Bruce.” Jason muttered, rising to his feet. “You had absolutely nothing to thank me for.”

He makes his way across the expansive yard, trying to keep off the barren flower beds as he walked.

When he reached the heavy wooden door of a back entrance, he paused. He came here once, when he first woke up after the blast. When his bones had finished stitching themselves back together after two months of baking in radiation and sun. He’d come to the manor, brambles stuck between each pale rod of his, panting with no lungs. 

He remembers his relief of seeing it for the first time after the explosion. Bruce’s ridiculous doomsday preparations paid off, when doomsday rolled around. Too bad he wasn’t around to see it.

The heavy mahogany of the doors and the resin coating the floors protected the interiors, only the foreign layer of dust settling across every available surface like a shitty instagram filter hinted towards the vacancy. If he squinted hard enough, the year old scruff marks of his barren feet against the hardwood floors. All sharp edges and hollow bones now, he knew to wear shoes to prevent leaving a recognizable imprint with every other step.

The halls of the manor were as silent and empty as ever. In a way, it was almost comforting. If Jason allowed his mind to wander, he’d hear the distant tinkle of Dick’s laugh, Tim and Steph’s bickering, Damian’s indignantly childish shouts. He could see the shadow of Cass slipping in and out of the corner of his eye. If he held his breath, he could feel the weight of Bruce’s hand just above his shoulder.

“Fuckin’ creepy.” he spoke, allowing his voice’s echo to shatter whatever wandering thoughts the silence brought. Warding off these incessant memories was a learned skill that he’d developed long before he’d lost the chance to make new ones. 

Shrugging off the lingering dread that thought brought, he snaked his way towards the solitary clock on the far end of the mansion, tucked away in the most insignificant hallway. For a moment, Jason took in the worn face of the clock. Without Alfred’s religious oiling and cleaning of the antique, the aging process had kickstarted itself into high gear. He’d seen it everyday for half a decade, and he swore that they’d had Zatanna enchant it to not be bothered by the daily man-handling of its hands. In just a year, though, the white paper of the clockface had already begun to yellow, the polished metal of the hands dulled and browned. Another year, he’s not too sure how easy manipulating it into opening will be. Whatever enchantment that had been cast had clearly worn off, losing its battle against Gotham’s humidity.

Sighing, he raised a thin gloved hand to push the clock into the right place. A few hollow thunks followed as the locks gave way, allowing him to shove the old grandfather clock out of the way, an illuminated staircase opening at his feet.

This cave - fitted to the T with Wayne Industry’s latest tech and polished with Bruce’s paranoia - was probably the last place in Gotham to retain electricity. Hell, it was probably the last place in the  _ country  _ to keep efficient charge, if you wanted to overlook the potato clocks that had made a resurgence in his little camp earlier in the year. As he descended the steps, the lights came on with a shudder and a thud. The electrical hum that always filled the air reached him, making him ball his fists against the overwhelming wave of nostalgia that passed over him. Unwilling to let his wandering mind delay him any longer than it already had in his journey, he focused his attention on the large monitor at the center of the room. He didn’t allow his eyes to wander to the grimy penny, or to see how foggy the case that held his costume had become. Not even for a moment.

He came within a foot of the filthy computer when he stopped, feeling as though his breath had caught in his lungs, even though he knew that was impossible. The computer sensed someone approach it, automatically coming to life and a small rectangular box that encouraged the user to type in some ridiculously long password. Jason watched the line blink within the box, as though the computer was impatiently counting every second that Jason stood there, looking like a dumbass, and fearing what would be waiting for him past the password screen.

Or more so, what  _ wouldn’t  _ be waiting for him on the other end.

Trying to shake his nerves, the skeletal man shook his head, tearing his gaze from the screen to the dust and debris by his feet. To his surprise, he could make out the disturbed grime from when he’d first come here, a year prior. The long, skinny print of his tarsal bones were recognizable even still, looking akin to scratch marks in the way that the sharp, uncovered bones dug against the metal of the platform. He was reminded of his desperation at the time, the confusion, the devastation. He felt like the very marrow of his bones was alight with fire, felt as though sirens echoed around his empty skull cavity. Felt tears fall where there was no such water, felt his ribs expand and constrict where there was no such air. It felt like the most personal hell. It has felt like the Lazarus Pit all over again.

He remembers cursing as he guessed through countless passwords, from his inventive “Password123$$$” from when he was twelve and first confronted with the need to make a password, to the ridiculously long jargon he’d memorized after seeing Cass type it into the keyboard a month before the big bang. It had been fruitless, and Jason felt like his last chance was burning out in his very hands, all because he’d gotten into a fight with Bruce a week prior and had been “banned” from the Batcave, having his access removed from the computer was just a part of that. He hadn’t thought much of it then, and he was paying for it now. 

“God, Bruce.” Jason had gasped, trying to reel in the panic that had been threatening to tear him apart. “Please. Something, God, please give me something.”

Digging the heels of his palm into his eyes, he desperately racked his brain for some sort of clue. Some sort of idea.

He’d always doubted that Bruce ever truly locked him out of the Batcave. Maybe at the start, he had. When he tried to kill them all, when his ears roared so loud that only a gunshot could quiet it. But that had been so long ago - after Kori and Roy, once he got a fucking grip - he questioned Bruce every time he revoked his rights to Batman-branded privileges. He’d grown able to pinpoint the light hollowness in Bruce’s voice when he made an empty threat - he’d learned it in that alleyway, when Bruce tossed empty threats at him to encourage him to drop the batarang and to please put the rims back on the tires. Almost everything had changed about B since then, but some things are just too inherent to change, even if you’re Batman.

So, he’d figured, Bruce must’ve left him a backdoor. Some password that Bruce would know he’d know, in case he’d even need access when he was - quote, unquote - banned from the batcave. 

The pale off-white of his fingers had hovered over the keyboard, waiting with the occasional twitch for inspiration to hit. He grit his teeth as he thought back to the early years in the manor, in the relatively (painfully) small period of time between when he hid cans of food in a “secret” go-bag in his closet and when he first questioned just how hard he should hit criminals. 

The first thing that came to mind was his first gala as a “Wayne” boy, how Bruce had ignored most of the party for the first and only time in favor of sitting next to Jason and muttering juiciest gossip and narrating the party-goer’s activities in the most hilariously monotone voice. Bruce would poke his ribs anytime he’d laugh a little too loud, a traitorous smile on his own lips to paint his hypocrisy. Yet when he typed in all the jokes, names, and phrases from that night - nothing.

He then thought of his first Christmas at the Wayne manor, how it was before he was officially known to the public. He’d gone out with Alfred the day before to get Bruce a gift - it was a watch, a shitty watch from a Kay Jewelers at the mall. He was painfully embarrassed by it, and had planned on hiding in his room all morning. Alfred hadn’t allowed that, though, and by 9 AM he was sitting cross legged at the base of a Christmas tree, holding a heavy box in his hand. Bruce had opened his gift first, immediately slipping the watch onto his wrist and silencing any self-deprecating comments with a warm “thank you, Jaylad” and an honest smile. He’d always worn that watch after, even after Jason died and - more surprisingly - after he’d come back. Jason opened his present to find the books he’d thought he lost in his move to the manor - torn and yellowed, stained and beaten, and all the escapes he’d loved as a child. He’d left the room with tears in his eyes. Bruce had later come to his room with milk and cookies, apologizing for “assuming he’d want his old possessions, he hadn’t thought it might not be welcome-” all of which got cut off as soon as Jason threw his arms around his middle in a hug, with a tear-strangled “thank you.” hardly audible against Bruce’s sternum. Yet when he typed in the book names, the watch names - hell, even the watch’s  _ serial number  _ \- to no avail.

He paused for a moment, trying to think of something more private between the pair. All the small jokes, the ritualistic ice cream runs after his straight A report card came out. In the three and a half year span he was the Boy Wonder, the two of them made a lifetime of little rituals and promises. Yet one stood out among all the rest. Every now and again, Jason’s nightmares woke him in the earliest hours of the morning while Bruce’s infallible insomnia kept him awake. One night, he’d snuck into the massive library within the manor with the hope of finding comfort in the characters braver than he. It was there, reading the back of some strange looking classic, that the door creaked open to reveal an exhausted Bruce Wayne. The two stood in their spots, both unsure of how to proceed, before they both spoke.

“I wasn’t gonna take it-”

“That’s a good choice-”

Silence, for another beat, before Bruce mustered a tired yet genuine grin. “Candide was my favorite book when I was your age.”

One thing had lead to another, and the next thing he remembered was laying across a velvety chaise, listening to Bruce read the classic. Every now and again, he’d throw in a comment that would lead to a debate, that would lead to the two trying to stifle their laughs in favor of waking the sleeping butler. One character had always stood out to the two of them, regardless of his relatively small role in the whole book. The philosophic teacher, who was so optimistic that it became painfully ironic, in the end. He’d always been so sure that their world was the best possible version of their world, no matter what would come to pass. Jason, relaxed into a drowsy mimic of attentiveness, found himself saying “I think this is the best of all possible worlds.” Bruce hadn’t responded, and Jason was almost entirely asleep when he felt the softness of a blanket being drawn up to his shoulders and the briefest pressure of lips against his temple.

“ ‘If this is the best of all possible worlds,’ “ Jason quoted from the aforementioned classic, slowly typing into the grimy keyboard. “ ‘Then what must the other’s be like?’ ”

PASSWORD: PANGLOSS

ACCESS GRANTED - JASON PETER TODD - RED HOOD

Jason watched the letters type into place, pulling himself from the memory and back to the present. He let the warm memory wash over him, settling into the worn leather chair in front of the computer.

“You’re such an asshole, B.” he joked to the empty cave. “You know I’d repress all those disgustingly sweet memories if I was really angry with you.”

The warm memory passed, making the cold all the more noticeable. Rolling his shoulders back with wince-inducing crackles and pops, he steeled himself to navigate the internal system. As eager as he was to stall the inevitable, he  _ did  _ just trek through three days of debris and mud to get to where he is now, so he’ll be damned if his anxiety makes him duck out of the mission this far in.

Dread resonated through his bones as he tapped one final “enter” key, leaning back against the chair as the screen went dark. A few beats past, and then a small text reading “CONNECTING…” lit across the screen, and Jason swore he felt a heartbeat thud against his rib cage. The fear of the line dropping raised in his head, loud as a church bell, and Jason was  _ really  _ considering just cutting his losses and considered just burying this last bit of hope in comfort alongside all the other skeletons in his closet-

“CONNECTED” the screen read.

“WATCHTOWER”

The screen flickered, and suddenly a live feed filled the space. In the center, a grinning blue-eyed boy, way past due on his haircut.

“You took so long, I was about to send Kon down to see if you’d become some radioactive mutant dog’s chew toy.”

“There’s radioactive mutant dogs I gotta worry about?”

“Everything is a radioactive mutant something nowadays, I’d say it’s safe to just be worried all the time.”

“Gee, you really know how to calm a guy down, Timbo.”

Tim barked out a laugh, and Jason felt his own shoulder’s shake in their own imitation.

You see, Tim had done a lot of good in his time on Earth. Even for those who may not deserve it, if you ask Jason. Notably was the infamous trickster, Klarion. Tim had saved his neck some time back, and Klarion was known to childishly hold favors and grudges over others, usually leading to some sort of headache for whatever superhero that had the misfortune of hosting his antics in their vicinity. Luckily for Tim, Klarion had remembered his favor at the last moment before the bombs went off. While Tim had been running back into the museum to disable the bomb, Klarion had teleported in, grabbed a handful of Tim’s cape, and promptly whisked him safely to the Watchtower, which orbited peacefully above the burning Earth below. Tim had stood there, staring from the observation deck at the explosions that were visible from Earth, as Klarion declared the two equals and left without any further statements. Tim had been able to point out the specific fireball that he saw consume his adoptive father and brothers. 

Tim had assumed that everyone was dead, and laid in an almost vegetative state until Kon had come and found him. Kon filled him in on the updates from Earth - All surviving Justice League personnel had tracked down the perpetrator species and had been off-world for the past month to track them down, all except Superman, who stayed in the Fortress of Solitude, waiting by his son Jon’s bedside as his human genes battled radiation poisoning. The knowledge that there were still people alive (mainly that  _ Kon  _ was still alive) was enough encouragement to seat him at the JL’s massive computer deck, monitoring human activity from the still-active satellites orbiting Earth and documenting as much as he possibly could in a detailed log he lovingly called his “witness statement”, which he jokingly said he’d use when he testified against God for emotional damage. It was while he was monitoring said satellites when he’d been startled with an incoming call request, coming in from the  _ Batcave,  _ and he  _ swore  _ his heart stopped when the video feed connected and a damn  _ skeleton  _ sat slack-jawed in Bruce’s seat.

You can imagine his surprise when the skeleton moved, when is gasped and cursed, and when those curses sounded like his dead brother Jason, who he  _ saw  _ die and-

  
  
  


“There has to be shampoo up there, man, you can’t have a good excuse.”

“I’d say the end of the world is reason enough to be lax about hair care, Todd.”

“I’ll have you know,  _ all  _ the members of my camp bathe  _ daily.  _ With  _ soap. _ ”

“If your water’s coming from the bay, then I really can’t agree that that counts as hygienic.”

Jason knew that his grin was indistinguishable from a frown nowadays, yet he was sure his younger brother could tell the difference. Trading jabs with his makeshift family, bickering over comms…. he’d missed it. God, he never thought he would, but he damn missed his brothers and the girls. And, looking at the brother he’d personally terrorized for way, way too long, he felt that maybe he was a little lucky, sometimes.

“Any updates from the last time we had tea time?”

Tim snorted, pulling up a list of notes he’d probably made separate just for his brother. He whizzed through the updates, listing all the largest communities of survivors around the globe, a few wars in southern Europe. A rising number of mutated species, now that they were a year in. A drop in radioactivity on the surface, including Gotham. He’d estimated there was about 8-8.5 million remaining survivors, from his most recent count.

“That’s not even enough people to fill New York City.” Jason noted, a little stunned by the meager numbers. Tim shrugged.

“It’s better than an absolute zero.” Tim said, pausing for a moment as Jason hummed a response. His jaw muscle twitched, and Jason felt himself tense in response.

“What is it, Red?” he asked, trying to look relaxed in the chair. “Please, share with the class.”

Tim rolled his eyes, and grimaced as he stared resolutely at the notes in his hand. “Klarion was here, a few days back.”

“Oh?” Jason responded, forced casual. “I thought the two of you were equal.”

“Yeah, well the world’s population dropped from 8 billion to 8 million, he’s low on people he can bother.” Tim huffed. “I asked him about your whole… you know. Situation.”

“My situation.”

“Yeah, your situation.” God, Tim was pulling teeth getting to the point. “He thinks it’s from the Lazarus pit. That it seeped into your bones and bonded with it at a molecular level - it’s happened before, although it tends to present post-mortem, when the body refuses to decay. It's what got a lot of people their sainthood, apparently.”

“Yeah well, I sure as hell ain’t no saint.” Jason said, a laugh in his voice hiding his nerves. “But that doesn’t explain the whole  _ alive  _ part, you know?”

“I was getting there.” Tim replied with a slight huff. “I had him go down and take a look at you - don’t worry, he didn’t mess with anything- and he was saying that it looks almost as though your spirit is just… haunting your own skeleton. Which is how you can move and talk, and any “phantom organ” experiences you may have. This isn’t definitive, of course, but I thought… I don’t know, I thought you might want an explanation.”

Jason leaned back against the seat, eyes drifting off to the side as he processed this information. He’d always figured it has  _ something  _ to do with the pit, although he gave up on dwelling over the endless possibilities when he fell in charge of a small group of survivors.

To think that all this time, the pit’s liquid seeping into the marrow of his bones - that that wasn’t even what kept him moving, talking… it was terribly, painfully relieving to hear it. That it was his  _ own  _ spirit that had stuck around, and that all the pit had really done was mummify a puppet for him to exist through.

“Huh.” Jason said, rather simply. “That’s… really stupid. Just the right kind of stupid to happen to me, though.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Thank you, Tim.” Jason turned back to the screen suddenly. “For asking Klarion. You didn’t have to.”

A hint of pink colored the tips of his ears, as it usually did anytime any praise swung his way. “It was mostly to make Klarion leave.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason laughed. “ But still. Thank you.”

“That’s not all.” Tim said in response, the gentle smile falling from his lips. “There’s uh… I’ve got some pretty big news.”

“Bigger than the revelation that I’m haunting my own bones?”

“Way bigger.” Tim took a steadying breath, looking right at the elder brother. “I was checking the activity around Gotham the other day, now that the snow has mostly thawed away. There’s a group of survivors, maybe thirty of them, that’s moving about 100 miles north of Gotham.”

“They got guns?” Jason asked, already going through his own arsenal in his head. “Cars? Horses?”

“No one has more guns than you, Jay.” Tim said with another eye roll. “They’re not a threat to you, so don’t run in guns blazing.”

“Alright, so they’re good eggs. Great. How is this bigger news than my haunted bones?”

Tim bit the inside of his cheek, placing his notes down with a little more force than necessary. “God, just let me finish what I’m saying, alright Jay? I don’t even know how to break this to you-”

“Christ, Timmy, just spit it out!”

“Dick’s with the group!”

A hush fell over the pair, only the near-silent hum of electricity assured Jason that he hadn’t just lost his hearing at that moment. His jaw was slack, and he searched his brother’s face for-for-he didn’t know, insanity? Some sort of tell that he was playing the world’s cruelest joke to get back at Jason? But Tim was watching him just as intensely, face open and eyes sharp. He was telling the truth.

“You really think that’s Dick? Not just someone else?” Jason asked, just to be sure.

“I wouldn’t tell you if I wasn’t sure.” Tim said with a sigh, leaning back in his own chair and pushing his fingers through his messy hair. “I looked at the last auto-saved files of Dick’s tracker. He’d been riding his bike down to Gotham when the bombs blew.”

“Bird brain was probably trying to play backup.” Jason muttered, shock still echoing through his bones.

“And ended up away from any metropolitan area in doing so, which saved his ass from both the bombs and all the societal fallout that followed.” Tim finished for him, sharing an image with Jason. It was two blurry photos from above, one of a man in a brown jacket riding a motorcycle, and another of a similar looking man in the same brown jacket, arms gesticulating excitedly to a very tired looking group of folk sitting around him. 

“That’s Dick.” Jason laughed breathlessly. “God, that’s Dickie.”

The two looked at the photos for a few more breathless seconds, soaking in the knowledge that they weren’t the only two surviving sons. A new ember of hope burned the soles of Jason’s feet.

“I’ll find him.” he promised, voice hard. “Tell me where to go and I’ll intercept them. I’ll go and bring him back.”

Tim smiled, and a file popped up on his monitor. It was a map of the greater Gotham region, with lines marking the mostly likely paths that Dick’s group would take, and the recommended route for Jason.

“Thanks, Jarvis.” Jason joked as he printed the map, carefully slipping it into an empty sheet protector. He heard Tim laugh, followed by a quick burst of static. He whipped his head up, walking back to the monitor.

“Tim?” he called, fiddling with the control to try and restore the connection. In a moment or two, the video returned, showing Tim with furrowed brows. He sighed.

“I’m moving too far out of range for the feed to keep up. Maybe if we both had the adequate amount of power it’d be able to keep the video anywhere, but with our power at the state it’s at…”

“Only a few more minutes, I got you.” Jason replied, a frown in his tone. Tim frowned on his end. Neither brother was eager to end the call, given that it’s always  _ months  _ between calls. Silence weighed between them again, both taking a moment to just try and commit each other’s image to memory. Just in case.

“I’ll get Dick.” Jason repeated, voice firm. “And I’ll bring him back here, so we’ll both talk to you. Just give me a few weeks.”

Tim twitched out a smile. “You know I’ll keep my eyes on you from up above. So don’t do anything too embarrassing.”

Jason huffed out a laugh, grabbing his helmet to place back on his head.

“Wait, Jay-” Tim said, voice urgent enough to stop the man in his tracks as he turned back to the monitor. Tim didn’t continue, a conflicted expression marring his features. Something about it made Jason set his teeth on edge.

“What’s up, twerp?” Jason nudged gently, trying to smother his concern. “Need me to pick up milk from the grocery store?”

“No, it’s just- I might-” Tim took a steadying breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Nevermind, it’s… it’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.” Jason responded, leaning closer to the monitor. “You okay, Tim?”

“I’ll be fine.” Tim said resolutely, jaw set in a way that said no level of torture would force him to speak if he didn’t want to. “It’s really nothing. And if- if anything  _ does  _ happen, for whatever reason, I’m sure Kon will let you know-”

“Christ, Tim, this isn’t what  _ fine  _ sounds like-”

“I’m telling you I’m fine.” Tim said, voice hard as stone. Static flickered in and out, and by the time Tim was back in focus, his face had softened to the smallest degree. “Please, just find Dick. And if you can… you said you’ll bring him back this way, right?”

“Yeah, yeah I will.”

Tim bit his lip and looked at his hands for a moment, tense all throughout his posture. “Hurry. Please.”

_ What’s wrong?  _ Jason desperately wants to ask.  _ Is it your medication? Are you sick? Did you let Kon in and he gave you radiation poisoning?  _

The questions raced through his head, each more terrifying than the last. Tim, from a mission long past, had lost his spleen; leaving him reliant on his medication and painfully immunocompromised. It’s why Kon hadn’t just taken him down to Earth once the radiation levels dropped - hell, Kon can’t even pass the first pane of glass separating the dock from the main ship, not without risking infecting Tim with whatever the hell has developed on Earth’s semi-radioactive surface in the last year. If anything went wrong, if he ran out of medication… 

“I’ll be quick.” he promises instead, swallowing his fears. “I’ll get Dick back before you even notice I’ve been gone.”

Tim smiles a relieved smile, and Jason hates this feeling of finality.

“Thank you, Jason.” There’s too much weight to those words, and Jason wished the helmet would just crack between his fingers.

“Don’t worry about it.” he replied easily enough, finally pulling his helmet over his head.

Static filled the screen again, and Jason fruitlessly tapped at the keyboard, trying to find a better connection. His brother faded in and out, the static a constant overlay.

“-t’s too far - … -cut the ca-. . . -oodbye, Jay.”

The screen turned black then, simply reading “DISCONNECTED” where Tim was moments ago.

The silence rang in Jason’s ears, and he stood there for a few moments more. Shaking his head, he logged off the computer. Unable to cope with the silence of the cave, the skeletal man trudged his way back upstairs, the lights returning to their hibernation as soon as he pushed past the grandfather clock. Darkness seeped in from the windows, encouraging a sigh out of the man. He’d have to stay the night here, it seemed.

It would give him more time to think, at least. Time to plan how exactly he’s gonna let Ivy and Harley know that they’re going to have to play house a little longer, now that he’s on a manhunt. Pulling out the rolled map, Jason took a moment to really look at it. On second glance, he noticed that Tim had left an annotation in regards to his travel route - Little to no debris, possibly can use a motorcycle. Jason felt a grin spread across his face, as strange as it sounds. He was going to joyride the batcycle, it seemed. Just like the good ole’ days.

The lower level of the manor - where he stood, at the moment - was built with galas in mind. Meaning it felt much, much too big for one person to stand alone in. Feeling antsy in the spacious, dingy lower level, he moved towards the stairs.

It seemed funny, that these empty halls seemed filled with ghosts when Jason was the only real ghost left around. It almost made him laugh, as he climbed the stairs up towards his old room.

“Who knows, if I’m only noticeable because I lucked out on a skeleton to haunt, who’s to say that Bruce isn’t-” he cut himself off with a laugh. “Who am I kidding? If he’s following anyone, it’s Dick.”

At that moment, Jason turned down the hall, pushing open the third door on his right. Sleeping probably wasn’t an option for the man at this point, but he could probably-

“What the hell?” he breathed, confused as the door opened to one of the studies on the floor. He was  _ sure  _ that this was his room, unless he took a right instead of a left at the top of the stairs-

It was at that moment that he  _ recognized  _ the room he stood in. It was a library, not just a study. The largest library in the mansion, that he had purposefully chosen the closest room to, all those years ago, 

Moving in, he cautiously took a lighter out of his pocket and flicked it on, feeling as though he was choking as soon as he looked around and realized that it was  _ all the same,  _ exactly just how he remembered it all those years ago.

“That means…” he muttered, going into a small storage closet hidden in the corner and pulling out a few candles. Strategically placing each candle on the least flammable surface, he lit each one until the room was alight in the soft glow of the candlelight. He stood back, surveying the room before him. In the dim light, it looked no different from the library a young, nightmare-ridden Jason Todd had hidden away in. Holding his breath, he walked deeper into the shelves, turning a corner to see-

Bruce’s armchair. A warm leather brown, worn in a way that’s not very suitable for the manor it sat within, and not an inch from where it was that first night. Feeling his chest restrict, he turned and saw the chaise, velvety as it had ever been. Removing a glove, he walked forward and dragged a boned finger over the familiarly crushed velvet. Regardless of the changes from both parties, it felt exactly the same. Carefully, almost reverently, he gently laid atop the chair, mimicking the position he’d always lay in. Yet as soon as his arm went to hook around the pillow, he felt it bump into something foreign.

Curiously, he pulled back the pillow and grabbed at the offending object. Laying against the chair, he raised the book to his eyes. And froze. Reread the title three times over, turned to page twenty-two to find the corner torn off, from when he tried to grab it when he’d dropped it back when he was fourteen-

In his hands sat the book, proudly reading in golden font across the top.  _ Candide _ . The first book that he and Bruce read together, the book that held the secret password that only he and Bruce knew. This book, tucked safely underneath the throw pillow, was the first item he’d found in the house that didn’t have a speck of dust on it.

A deep, deep ache blossomed at the pit of his stomach at the implication, that Bruce had come to the library to reminisce, that he’d laid the book where Jason used to drift off to sleep like it was some kind of- some sort of-

More tired than he’d been in a long time, Jason relaxed deeper into the chair with a sigh. Curling up a little tighter, he glanced up to the vacant leather chair across from him. He could almost imagine, in this dim light, a figure sitting - back perfectly straight - a hint of a smile.

He pulls his eyes down to the book in his hands. “I guess I’ll read this time.” Jason whispered to himself, delicately folding open the pages.

  
  
  
  


_ “In the country of Westphalia, in the castle of the most noble Baron of Thunder–ten–tronckh, lived a youth whom Nature had endowed with a most sweet disposition…”  _

**Author's Note:**

> !!!
> 
> this took me about... four months to write. And I wrote the majority of that last night lol. Tell me your thoughts! I haven't written the bats since i was a mere eleven year old writing young justice fics on ff. net, so i'd love to hear what you think! good and bad !
> 
> im considering writing a few spinoffs, like following up on Tim, seeing what Dick's been up to, maybe even the adventures of Harls and Ivy... who knows! i'll see how this goes first :^)
> 
> find me on tumblr @space-ex
> 
> buy me coffee! https://ko-fi.com/space_ex


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